his household by telling them he meant to take another wife. Andrew
was silent, but Miriam at once flew into a violent passion, and thereby
greatly incensed her father. There was no cause for her anger. Mrs.
Brooks, whom Giacomo had chosen, was, as the second choice often is,
just the woman who was necessary to him. She was about forty, a good
manager, with an equable temper, a widow, with no children, not in the
least degree rigid, but, on the contrary, affectionate. She had seen
some trouble with her first husband, who was a little farmer and drank,
and consequently, although she was a churchwoman, had been driven to
the Bible, and had found much comfort therein. "Although she was a
churchwoman" may sound rather strange, but still it is a fact that in
those days in Cowfold the church people, and for that matter the
Dissenters too, did not read their Bibles; but amongst the Dissenters
there was here and there a remnant of the ancient type to whom the
Bible was everything. Amongst the church people there were very few or
none.
Why Miriam should be so wrathful with her father it is extremely
difficult to say. It is certain she did not object to her deposition
as housekeeper. She never cared for her duties as mistress. Perhaps
one reason was that she chose to resent the apparent displacement of
her own mother. She never knew her, and owed her nothing except her
birth; but she was _her_ mother, and she took sides with her, and
considered her insulted, and became her partisan with perfect fury.
Perhaps, too, Miriam was slightly jealous that her father, who was now
nearing his half century, should show himself not altogether dead to
love. She would have liked to find him insensible, leaving all love
affairs to his children, and she once even went so far as to use the
word "disgusting" in conversing with Andrew on the subject.
Giacomo, however, was very determined, notwithstanding his affection
for his daughter, and disagreeable scenes took place between them. She
showed her displeasure in a thousand ways, and was positively rude to
Mrs. Brooks when she invited Miriam to her house.
Giacomo had a sister, a Mrs. Dabb, who lived in London. She had
married a provision dealer in the Borough, and he employed not only a
staff of assistants, but a couple of clerks. Mrs. Dabb, oddly enough,
was a fair-haired woman, with blue eyes and a rosy complexion. She had
rather a wide, plump face, and wore her hair in ringlets. She lived at
the shop, but she had a drawing-room over it with a circular table in
the middle, and round it lay the "Keepsake" and "Friendship's
Offering," in red silk, with Mrs. Hemans' and Mr. Montgomery's poetry.
Into these she occasionally looked, and refreshed herself by comparing
her intellect with that of the female kind generally. She desired
above everything not to be considered commonplace, believed in love at
first sight, was not altogether unfavourable to elopements, carefully
repressed any tendency to unnecessary order, wore a loose dressing-gown
all the morning, had her breakfast in bed, let her hair stray a little
over her face, cultivated a habit of shaking it off and pushing it back
with her fingers, and generally went as far to be thought a little
"wild" as was possible for the wife of a respectable, solid, eminently
British, close-fisted Borough tradesman. Nevertheless she had a huge
appetite, and always had ham or sausages for tea. Giacomo she
despised, on the ground that his occupation was so limited, that it
contracted the imagination, and that he did not "live in the
metropolis, but vegetated in a country town." She consequently very
seldom visited Cowfold, and very seldom wrote to her brother. Giacomo,
however, thought it his duty to tell his sister of his approaching
marriage; and Mrs. Dabb, who was endowed with great curiosity, replied
that, if it was quite agreeable, she would come to Cowfold for two or
three days to make the acquaintance of Mrs. Brooks and obtain a change
of air, as she had suffered somewhat from feelings of languor of late
and a little fever on the nerves. Accordingly she came, and in a short
time saw what was the state of affairs between Miriam and her father.
She rather liked Miriam, chiefly for her defects; and as Giacomo had
been a little freer than usual with his sister one evening, and had
expressed his fears that Miriam and Mrs. Brooks would not agree, Mrs.
Dabb gave him some advice.
"Miriam, my dear Giacomo, is a bit of a genius, untamed and irregular,
reminding me something of myself."
Giacomo did not much believe in untamed irregular genius. It was
certainly of no use in clockmaking.
"Well, what then?"
"I should say that she suffers through limitation of her sphere. No
suffering like that, Giacomo. Ah me!"
Mrs. Dabb shook back her hair, and put both her hands to her forehead.
"Does your head ache?"
"No; at least not more than usual. I always have a weight there; I
believe it is merely ideas. I asked a very eminent young man who lives
not far from us--he occupies a high position in the hospital--a
dresser, I think, they call him; and he said it was due to
overstrung--dear me, what was it! I remember putting it down, it
seemed so exactly to coincide with my own views."
Mrs. Dabb looked in her pocket-book.
"Overstrung cerebration, that was it; overstrung cerebration."
"What were you going to say about Miriam?"
"A little proposal. My husband wants a clerk. Why not let Andrew take
the place, and Miriam be his housekeeper? We have no room for them,
but apartments are to be procured at a low rate."
This was in reality Miriam's scheme. She had heard of the vacancy in
Mr. Dabb's establishment, and had implored her aunt to use her
influence with Giacomo to gain his assent to Andrew's removal. Mrs.
Dabb was not an unkind woman; she really thought she liked Miriam, and
she consented. She had even gone so far as to encourage her in the
belief that she "vegetated," and the word opened up to her a new world.
"Vegetate"--it stuck to her, and became a motive power. Great is the
power of a thought, but greater still is the power of a phrase, and it
may be questioned whether phrase is not more directly responsible than
thought for our religion, our politics, our philosophy, our love, our
hatred, our hopes and fears.
"I do not think," said Giacomo, "they could live on a clerk's salary.
Andrew would not be worth much as a beginner."
"It is astonishing, my dear Giacomo, upon how little people can live,
if their wants are simple, like my own, for example; and then Andrew
would have the opportunity of acquiring animal food at a cheap rate."
"I do not like the thought of parting with the children, and I fear the
dangers of London, especially for a girl like Miriam."
"I would take them, Giacomo, under my wing. Besides, as a dear friend
once observed to me, evil has no power over the pure soul. I feel it
myself; it cannot come near me; it dissolves, it departs. What is the
Borough to me with all its snares? I am in a different world."
Giacomo for some time refused; but Miriam was alternately so unpleasant
and so coaxing, that at last he consented. Poor Andrew had really no
will of his own in the affair. He was a gentle, docile creature whom
clockmaking suited, but he was pleased at the thought of the change,
and who could tell? he might rise to a position at his uncle's far
beyond anything which he could attain in Cowfold.
After some negotiation, therefore, Miriam and Andrew departed for
London, the salary being fixed at thirty-eight shillings a week. To
this Giacomo added twelve shillings a week--two pounds ten shillings
altogether. It was a happy day for both of them when they journeyed to
the end of Cowfold Lane, and waited for the coach; they were happier
still when they were mounted on the top, and were at last on the great
London road, and already on the line which, was in direct communication
with the great city. It was different altogether from the Cowfold
roads, and there was a metropolitan air about it. They continually met
coaches going away to York, Newcastle, and even to Edinburgh, and the
drivers mutely saluted by lifting their whips as they passed. Two
drivers had thus met for forty years, and had never spoken a single
word to one another. At last one died, and the other took his death so
much to heart that he sickened and died too. The inns were nothing
like the Cowfold inns. They were huge places, with stables like
barracks, and outside each of them were relays of beautiful horses
standing ready for the change. The scenery from Huntingdon to London
is not particularly attractive, but to Miriam and Andrew the Alps could
not have been more fascinating. They wondered that others did not
share their excitement, and Andrew thought that a coachman must be the
happiest of men.
At last they reached Barnet, the last stage, and immediately afterwards
they saw the line of the smoke-cloud which lay over the goal of all
their aspirations, the promised land in which nothing but golden
romance awaited them. Presently a waypost was passed, with the words
_To the West End_ upon it, so that they might now be fairly said to be
at least in a suburb. Ten minutes more brought them to Highgate
Archway, and there, with its dome just emerging above the fog, was St.
Paul's! They could hardly restrain themselves, and Miriam squeezed
Andrew's hand in ecstasy. They rattled on through Islington, and made
their first halt at the "Angel," astonished and speechless at the
crowds of people, at the shops, and most of all at the infinity of
streets branching off in all directions. Dingy Clerkenwell and
Aldersgate Street were gilded with a plentiful and radiant deposit of
that precious metal of which healthy youth has such an infinite
store--actual metal, not the "delusive ray" by any means, for it is the
most real thing in existence, more real than the bullion forks and
spoons which we buy later on, when we feel we can afford them, and far
more real than the silver tea-service with which, still later, we are
presented amidst cheers by our admiring friends in the ward which we
represent in the Common Council, for our increasing efforts to uphold
their interests.
At the Bull and Mouth they saw that marvel, the General Post Office,
but they had not much time to look at it, for here they were met by a
young man from Mr. Dabb. They were disappointed that Mrs. Dabb had not
come, but a verbal excuse was offered that she was in bed with a
headache. Mr. Dabb, of course, was too busy to leave. The messenger
was commissioned to take them to their uncle's, where they were to have
tea; and after tea they were to go to the lodgings which Mrs. Dabb had
provisionally selected for them. In a few minutes they had crossed
London Bridge, and drew up in front of Mr. Dabb's house. There was no
private entrance, and they encountered their uncle on the pavement. He
was short and thick, with a very florid complexion, and wore a brown
jersey, and a white apron fastened at the back with a curious brass
contrivance. There were two or three people with him, and he had a
knife in his hand. The doors were wide open; there seemed to be no
windows, and in fact Mr. Dabb's establishment was a portion of the
street just a little recessed. He was in and out continually, now on
the pathway talking to a customer there, and then passing inside to the
ladies who were a little more genteel, and preferred to state their
wants under cover. At the back of the shop was a desk perched up
aloft, just big enough for one person, and with a gaslight over it.
Andrew noticed it, and thought of winter, and wondered how anybody
could sit there during a January day with the snow on the ground, or
during a cold thaw.
Mr. Dabb put down his knife and shook hands with them.
"Well, Mr. Andrew, so you've come to make your fortune--long hours,
hard work, stick at nothing; cutting place the Borough. Better go
inside. Put your traps up in that corner; you'll want 'em again
directly. Aunt's abed upstairs; can't see you to-night."
They went into a little greasy back parlour, lighted by a skylight, if
indeed a window could be so called whose connection with the sky was so
far from being immediate.
Mr. Dabb looked in. "You'll have some tea in a minute. I myself can't
leave--shorthanded."
They were not asked to wash or take off their travelling clothes.
Presently a slut of a girl appeared with a tray on which there were
some ham, a shapeless mass of butter which looked as if it had been
scooped out of a pot, a loaf, a teapot, some cups and saucers, a milk
jug, and two plates, with knives and forks. She went to a cupboard,
put a black cruet-stand on the table, and as the milk had been spilt
over the bread, she took the plate to the fender, emptied it amongst
the ashes, and wiped it with her apron. The apron was also used to
wipe the butter plate, on which there was an unusually black mark, with
lines resembling the imprint of a very big thumb. In about
half-an-hour after they had refreshed themselves Uncle Dabb looked in.
"Better be off before it gets dark. Eight o'clock sharp to-morrow
morning, Andrew. Sharp's the word. Breakfast before you come. My boy
will show you your quarters. Needn't take them unless you like them."
A cab was called, their luggage was put upon it, and they were landed
in Nelson Square. The lodgings were three rooms at the back of the
house, two of them garrets at the top, and the third a small
sitting-room on the ground floor, behind the front parlour. They
looked rather dismal, and Miriam inquired whether they could not have
front rooms.
"Oh yes, ma'am; but they would come more expensive. Mrs. Dabb told me
she didn't think you would like to pay more than thirteen shillings and
sixpence a week without extras, which is exceedingly cheap for this
part, and the front rooms corresponding would be five-and-twenty
shillings."
This settled the question. They had fancied an outlook on a gay
promenade, and they had in its place a waste expanse of dirty dull
roofs and smoking chimneys. If they looked down below, they saw a
series of small courtyards used for the purpose of storing refuse which
could not be put in the dustbin--bottles, broken crockery, and odd bits
of rusty iron. The first thing was to provide the breakfast for the
following morning. This their landlady offered to do for them. The
next thing was to go to bed utterly wearied and worn out. They both
slept soundly, and both woke much refreshed and full of buoyant hope.
A pleasant and seductive vista lay before them--seductive and pleasant,
although they were in Nelson Square, as that which we see in one of
Turner's Italian pictures--a temple at the side, a lake in front and
beyond it a valley embosomed in woods and mountains, basking in golden
light.
They planned the day. Miriam had to lay in her stock of eatables, and
of course must call on her aunt. At twenty minutes to eight Andrew
started. The way was easy to find, and he was at his uncle's five
minutes before his time. The shopmen were already there, and Andrew
had rather a rough greeting.
"An't yer brought yer warming-pan with yer, young 'un? You'll find it
cool a sittin' still all day long."
Andrew then found out that the desk up aloft was really his appointed
post.
"Don't yer be so free, Bill," said the other; "he's the govnor's nevvy.
You'd better mind what you're at, old man, now we've got the nevvy
here."
"I suppose you'll be a pardner next week," continued the first with a
bow.
The truth was that Mr. Dabb had told his men that he was expecting a
nephew "of his missus's," and that "he was took on as a kind of charity
like."
Mr. Dabb now appeared.
"Here you are--all right. Sharp's the word--that's my motter. Keep on
your coat and hat--you'll want 'em, I can tell you. This isn't a place
for coddlin', is it, Bill?" Bill smiled. "You've got to take the
money--all ready money here, except a few weeklies. You get a ticket,
see as you have the right amount; we keep a duplicate, and so we check
you. Things as go in the books you put down. Three-quarters of an
hour for your dinner and half-an-hour for tea--not like Cowfold, eh?
You'll see life here--_life_, my boy;" and Mr. Dabb, full of ham,
buttered toast, and hot coffee, and feeling very well that morning,
began to chop with great vigour at the spine of a dead pig suspended by
its hind-legs. "Life," he said again--"there isn't such a place in
London for life as the Borough; and though I say it, there aren't many
more places in the Borough where there's more life than at Dabb's. Now
then, mount."
Andrew assumed his new position. Fortunately for him, he was, like
many other youths of his bent, rather quick at arithmetic; Mr. Dabb was
not very busy, and whatever his faults may have been, was by no means
disposed to be hard upon a beginner. Still the day was insufferably
long, and he rejoiced with a foolish extravagance of delight when the
hour came for going home. There was nothing exhilarating in the
streets through which he raced: there was no certainty of anything
particularly pleasant in Nelson Square, and the morrow would inevitably
be as to-day. But still he was glad; and as for the morrow, he did not
see it.
At three o'clock Miriam called on her aunt. As she passed through the
shop she saw her brother, but it was full of people, and she could not
speak to him. She found Mrs. Babb still in bed with her nerves in
disorder; other things were in disorder too, and Miriam particularly
wondered at the dishevelled condition of Mrs. Dabb's hair, nightcaps
being the custom at Cowfold for all people who were not girls nor boys.
Miriam was not an orderly person, as we know, but Mrs. Dabb's room was
a surprise to her. In one corner was an old green sofa, on which
clothes were thrown; on the top of the clothes was a tray with some
half-eaten bread and butter, a piece of bacon, and some tea things--we
will not, however, go any further.
"I am glad you've come, my dear," said Mrs. Dabb, "although I am afraid
I shall not be able to see you so often as I could wish, for my health
is not good, and when I am better there is so much to be done."
Miriam thought that if this might be true, there was no reason to put
it in the forefront of the reception.
"Your brother, I believe, will do very well. It must be a great relief
to him to be freed from his mechanical labours in a provincial town,
and to find himself in a more extended circle."
Miriam thanked her aunt, and said that she was sure her uncle would be
kind.
"Yes, he will be kind; although I should not say that kindness is the
one thing prominent in him. In such large commercial undertakings the
feelings are not developed. I am often sensible of it. There is no
response in your uncle to what is best in me, yet I must not complain.
Perhaps if we had children it might have been different, and yet who
knows? Maternal solicitude might have destroyed the sentiment I now
possess. But I must not weary myself by talking--I must bid you
good-bye. Come again soon."
Miriam rose, ventured to kiss her aunt, and departed.
Three months passed, and Miriam and Andrew agreed that there was
vegetation in London as well as in Cowfold. They began indeed to think
it was even a little greener in Cowfold than in Nelson Square itself.
Miriam had been out for walks--she had been as far as Regent Street;
but Regent Street began to lose its charms, especially as she had no
companions. Her landlady, Miss Tippit, was a demure little person of
about fifty years, but looking rather younger, for her hair was light.
It was always drawn very tightly over her forehead, and with extreme
precision under her ears. She invariably wore a very tight-fitting
black gown, and as her lips too were somewhat tightly set, she was a
very tight Miss Tippit altogether. It was necessary to be so, for
beyond an annuity of 20 pounds a year, she had no means of support save
letting her lodgings. She was very good, but her goodness appeared to
lack spontaneity. It seemed as if she did everything, and even
bestowed her rare kisses, under instructions from her conscience, and
every tendency to effusiveness was checked as a crime. Yet the truth
was that she was naturally kind and even generous, but disbelieving in
nature on the whole, she never would sanction any natural instinct
unless she could give it the form of duty. She was an unpleasant
companion at times, because she often felt bound to "set things right,"
and made suggestions which were resented as interference. When she
visited her friends, for she had two or three, she invariably assumed
the reins, and was provocative by reason of her unauthorised
admonitions to the servants or remarks upon defective management.
Another odd thing was that Miss Tippit was a Christian. She went to
church regularly twice every Sunday, and it was always her parish
church. She might have found something to do her more good if she had
gone farther afield; but she considered it her duty to go to her own
church as she called it. The parson was not eminent, belonged to no
school, and said nothing which was specially helpful; but Miss Tippit
listened with respect, heard the Bible read, did her best to join in
the hymns with her little thin voice, and prayed the church prayers.
She contrived, through what she heard, and what she sang, and what she
prayed, not only to provide herself with an explanation which she did
not doubt of the here and hereafter--an explanation which would not
probably have been secure against Strauss--but she obtained a few
principles by which she regulated this present life--principles of
extreme importance, which scepticism must admit if the world is not to
go to ruin. In the church, too, in the corner against the wall, when
the music sounded, or when the voice of the priest was heard asking for
the Divine mercy, the heart of Miss Tippit often moved, notwithstanding
the compression of her tight black dress, and something seemed to rebel
in her throat against her bonnet-strings. What did she think in those
sacred moments? Let us not profane her worship with too minute
inquiry. Whatever she thought, those emotions were perfectly valid.
She might be snappish, limited, and say ugly things during half the
week, but there was something underneath all that which was in
communication with the skies. The church was the only mental or
spiritual education which Miss Tippit received. Books she never
read--she had not time; and if she tried to read one she was instantly
seized with a curious fidgetiness--directly she sat down with a volume
in her hand it was just as if things went all awry, and compelled her
instantly to rise and adjust them. In church all this fidgetiness
vanished, and no household cares intruded. It was strange, considering
her temper, and how people generally carry their secular world with
them wherever they go, but so it was. There was a secret in her
history, her friends said, for though they knew nothing of her little
bit of private religion, and although she never admitted a soul into
the little oratory where the image of her Saviour hung, everybody was
aware that there was "a something about her" which took her out of the
class to which she externally and by much of her ordinary conduct
appeared to belong, and of course the theory was an early love
disappointment, the only theory which the average human intellect is
capable of forming in such cases. It was utterly baseless; and Miss
Tippit was touched with this faint touch of supernal grace just because
her Maker had so decreed.
Miriam disliked Miss Tippit on account of her primness and old
maidishness, and the frequent hints which she gave to keep her room in
order. Miriam had picked up an epithet, perhaps from her aunt, perhaps
from a book which seemed exactly to describe Miss Tippit--she was
"conventional;" and having acquired this epithet, her antipathy to Miss
Tippit increased every time she used it. It was really not coin of the
realm, but gilded brass--a forgery; and the language is full of such
forgeries, which we continually circulate, and worst of all, pass off
upon ourselves. Thus it happened that although Miss Tippit would have
been glad to do Miriam many a service, her offers were treated with,
something like disdain, and were instantly withdrawn. The only other
lodgers in the house were an old gentleman and his wife on the first
floor, whom Miriam never saw, and about whom she knew nothing.